


There's a Truth (and it's on our side)

by notunbroken



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notunbroken/pseuds/notunbroken
Summary: An endless night in the growth of a meandering relationship, where exhaustion, fear, and frustration meld together following Philip Stroh’s escape.





	There's a Truth (and it's on our side)

Four days.

Four days, four nights of accelerants, mystical patterns, crude taunts, charred flesh, an unsanctioned beating, and one incredibly close call. All of it, for this.

Burning Man sits in their interview room, yes, but he knows nothing of Stroh beyond a fannish glee and his overarching philosophy:

_Never leave a witness._

The words sink into Sharon’s bones when they float to her through a monitor; they send her fingers trembling. She curls her hands into fists, a useless effort to stop the motion. 

They’ve lost everything by chasing this man. He’s no more than a ruse, a shield Stroh propped up to deflect attention. He knows nothing.

Disgust soaks through her as she pushes out of Electronics, sending her near-colliding with the LAPD’s newest deputy chief. Fritz is wide-eyed and hard-jawed. Sharon doesn’t waste seconds greeting him. “We need to escalate.”

“I agree.” He lifts an arm toward her conference room, across the office. “I’m trying to set up a video call with FBIHQ, getting them information to liaise with TSA, CBP, the Coast Guard… anyone who could mobilize to keep Stroh in the country.”

Even as her stomach twists at the idea, Sharon says, “I think we should add INTERPOL and the State Department to that list, hedge against the worst-case scenario.”

Fritz’s mouth drops open, but he doesn’t argue, just sets to backing away. “Sure, yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”

They’re all reeling from this. They’re all connected. He no doubt sees Stroh’s freedom as a threat to Brenda, who found herself as a target once already. But the truth is, anyone who’s ever touched the case could find themselves in the crosshairs.

_Some are more likely to be there than others, though._

Sharon watches Rusty pace across her office. He’s determined to put on a brave face, pretend none of this bothers him. He wants to live his life without the hassle and embarrassment of a police escort. Logically, she understands this. Maternally, it makes her want to scream.

Where would a practiced killer start? With an unarmed, untrained thorn in his side. Someone who may be wary, but doesn’t grasp the full danger—

The curl of a hand on her shoulder starts her from her thoughts.

“Sorry, Captain.” Provenza’s face is drawn, his stare lifts to the darkened windows lining the Murder Room. “We’re finished with Burning Man.”

“Were you able to get any other leads?”

His chin tips downward. “Ah, no. Not on Stroh.” With a glance back, to where Andy stands, hands on hips and glaring toward the board, he adds, “We’d might as well look for blood in a stone.”

“I doubt, now, that Stroh ever let him close enough to know anything valuable.”

“Yeah, he just hung poor Burning Man out to dry,” his voice laces with sarcastic pity, “like a pair of psychopathic overalls.”

Sharon directs a nod at Chief Taylor and Commander McGinnis, who head into the conference room. “So now we scramble.”

Provenza follows their path with a furrowed brow. “You’ve got a lot to deal with here, tonight, and I know Rusty’s wiped out.” He crooks a thumb in the direction of her office. “Why don’t I take him over to my house, try to get him some sleep?”

“Oh…” Again, instinct says to keep him close, because close is safe. But a squad room in the midst of a crisis is no place for him to rest. Gratitude sends her lips twitching upward. “I’d appreciate that very much, Lieutenant, thank you.”

“Not a problem.” He pauses in turning, aims a narrow stare at her. “Don’t forget to nap a little, yourself.”

The suggestion leaves her sighing a laugh. “We’ll see when I get the time.” Over his shoulder, she catches Rusty’s eye, gives him a small wave.

It’s better for him to have a quiet night at Provenza’s house. Of course, ‘better’ means ‘calmer,’ a descriptor that Rusty doesn’t often appreciate. Even from a distance, his grimace at the Lieutenant’s plan tells her he doesn’t see the break as a reward.

Speaking of lieutenants with plans — this version brutal, based on appearances — Andy strides in her direction. As if by reflex, Sharon finds herself pressing the fingertips of her nearest hand into his lapel, aiming to calm him.

It doesn’t work.

“What can I do?”

The firm, straightforward intensity of his question sends a pressure into her sinuses, one that quickly shifts to squeeze at her eyes. She swallows to dislodge it, draws her fingers across her forehead to cover her quick blinks. “Do you still have a contact at Highway Patrol?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to know the guidance they’re getting at the line level, whether they’re—”

“Captain.” She spins toward the voice, finds Fritz hanging from the far doorway. Having gained her attention, he says, “We’re on.”

Holding a pausing finger in his direction, she turns back to Andy, who paraphrases her request. “You wanna know if they’re actually doing anything on Stroh.”

“In short, yes.”

He nods in Fritz’s direction. “Should I bring the update in, when I get it?”

“Please.”

With that settled, she joins the meeting. Inside, Fritz introduces the attendees. He speaks toward the room’s TV — or the camera below it — where several faces display. “Ah, and this is Captain Raydor, our incident commander. On the line we have SSA Tremonti from the special operations post at FBI headquarters, Commander Perro from Border Patrol Region Five, SSA Branley from Homeland Security Investigations…I think that’s it.”

A frame enlarges on the screen as another voice pops in. “Uh, you also have ATF. SSA Paquette, here in LA.”

“Ah, right,” Fritz’s brow creases, but he doesn’t comment. “Thank you all for logging on, I know it’s not the best time of day, but we appreciate your flexibility. As you’ve heard, we have a particularly severe fugitive situation, here, regarding a serial murderer named Philip Stroh.”

Without pause, he heads into a succinct, yet detailed, brief on the case history, from Stroh’s legal career to the afternoon’s events. Sharon recognizes that the presentation likely should’ve been hers to give, even as she accepts she didn’t have the bandwidth to organize it.

He ends with a smooth transition to the call’s purpose. “And, so, we want to know what information we can share with you to spread the word on Stroh.”

On the screen, Agent Tremonti frowns. “Uh, well, his record and the warrant would already come up on an NCIC identity search, but—”

Fritz leans further onto the table. “There’s no way this guy is gonna give his own name or social to anyone.”

 _Bless him, for saying what we_ ’ _re all thinking._ At least his Bureau history should keep the friction to a minimum.

“Right.” Tremonti goes terse. “But if we send out an alert with his description through the Law Enforcement Portal, maybe someone will recognize him.”

“Wait a second…”

As the view on the TV shifts to display the new speaker, Fritz’s brow lifts. “Yes, Commander Perro.”

“I understand the FBI wants to take lead on this, but—”

“No, no,” a grin spreads over Tremonti’s lips. “I never said that.”

“Sure, but if your people are going to write and distribute the alert—”

 _Of all the times to hold a pissing contest._ Sharon’s lack of patience surges from her chest. “Gentlemen, with all due respect, LAPD still has lead on this incident. We’re only requesting coordination.”

Even so, Tremonti and Perro spend what feels like hours trading concessions on which agency will write the alert, and the mechanism by which it will be distributed. While they haggle, Andy appears in the doorway. She invites him to the table with a curl of her fingers.

He’s barely settled into a chair before he catches on to the conversation playing out on the screen, his nose wrinkling with distaste. Nonetheless, he wordlessly pulls a paper from his jacket, slides it along the tabletop to where Sharon can read what he’s written.

_CHP just now getting the BOLO._

Another blow, another mistake, another wide avenue for Stroh’s escape. Sharon’s heart sinks with it. As much as she wants to walk out of the room, find a good, soundproof place to scream, she twists back to Tremonti’s enlarged face on the television.

“Okay, with CBP’s _generous_ help, we should be able to push the federal alert within the hour. Meanwhile, our fingerprinting section is working to digitize your subject’s prints to a scannable format. CBP should be getting that inside two hours. The facial recognition schematic from his mugshot will be available to all takers around midnight, your time.”

From Sharon’s side, a quiet, but firm, assessment: “That’s not quick enough.”

The words pull glares and hardened jaws from across the table, but Andy is right. Not exactly tactful, as usual, but right. Steering like an aircraft carrier, the federal government bureaucracy doesn’t have the agility to pursue Stroh. Sharon dips her chin in a bare nod, a silent show of agreement.

As well-meaning as he might be, Tremonti’s math doesn’t add up. Stroh has been moving for three hours already. His open routes have been multiplying by the minute, in the interim. The time for passive information sharing has long since left them behind.

Not that reality holds much sway where inter-agency cooperation is concerned. There are far too many checklists and egos involved.

Tremonti demonstrates this with a cool stare into his camera. “Well, _I_ ’ _m sorry_ , but this is our protocol.”

“Ah,” Taylor lifts a calming hand, “believe me, Agent Tremonti, we understand.”

Andy looks skyward before tugging his note into writing range. He opens his pen with a jab, scrawls something, slides it back to Sharon as he stands and makes a quiet exit.

 _I know a guy_ , he wrote, and it’s all she can do to hold back a snort. He has no shortage of _guys_ (not all of whom are actually guys), contacts in organizations obscure enough to leave her wondering. For someone who doesn’t often give off the best of first impressions, it’s a feat.

No, not everyone can network, as displayed by the call’s dissolution into agencies squabbling amongst themselves from afar. It goes further to hell once ATF — why they were invited, no one seems to know — jumps into the fray. Sharon walks out of the conference with little more than useless plans and neck tension, promises from her superiors that they’ll check in tomorrow morning.

Cynicism whispers that they only stayed this late for the federal facetime.

Not that it matters. They’ll head home and sleep — though only possibly, in Fritz’s case. They’ll come back clear-headed, ready to pick up the hunt. Sharon doesn’t expect the same from herself.

Back in the Murder Room, the late hour shows. With Provenza shuffling Rusty away, Julio jettisoned off to FID, and Mike and Amy handling their suspect, the space gives off the impression of a skeleton crew. Truth is, despite the air of emergency, there’s not much left to do.

Buzz hunches over his laptop, giant headphones cupping his ears. Andy half-sits on his desk with his phone cradled against his shoulder, staring at the board. Following his line of sight, Sharon finds a map of the Southwest with concentric circles radiating from Los Angeles. It’s Stroh’s possible travel distance, no doubt. At six hours, the boundaries stretch far to the north, east, and south, a space too vast to throughly comb.

They might as well be trying to catch the sand that covers so much of that wide, open land.

Still, Andy turns to grab a notepad from his desk. “So we’re looking at the San Diego, El Centro, Yuma, and Tucson sectors. You got contacts in the brass for any of those?” His pen skitters across the paper. “Uh-huh, and what about the Arizona ones?” He stills. “Look, I won’t even mention your name, okay? It’s an emergency.”

Sharon should probably care about who he’s speaking with, what he’s telling them, and how he’s saying it. But tonight, any information he gets is more important than whatever bridges he might ignite.

As the hours pass, any other useful approaches dry up around them. Again and again her still-standing squad members come to Sharon — Mike and Amy after booking Burning Man, Buzz after scouring the footage of Stroh’s escape — asking what comes next. One by one, she sends them home.

The night janitors make their rounds. Sharon trades emails with an FBI analyst stationed in France, massaging the international alert language until it conveys the essentials. Andy’s phone rings here and there, bringing surprisingly lengthy exchanges. From this end, the conversations dip into a tone that leaves her wondering whether she should boot him out, too.

The crack of his handset into its receiver is the final straw. Though the room sways a bit when she stands, she takes a moment to steady herself, steel her spine, and prepare her best arguments for making him leave.

Instead, he steps into her doorway. If he’s surprised to see her standing there, he doesn’t show it. With his mouth set into a grim line, he lifts his chin in her direction. “How’s it going in here?”

“Well,” Sharon releases her plan with a sigh. _Figure out what_ ’ _s wrong, first_. “INTERPOL has issued their red notice, so in the event Stroh _does_ make it across the border, at least we have that.” Rather than showing any hint of relief at the news, Andy’s eyes drop to the floor. Her shoulders tighten at the reaction. It sends her stepping toward him before asking, “What’s going on?”

The deepening line of his frown answers before he speaks. “I’ve been talking with CBP. They got the facial recognition workup from the FBI and ran it up against video of every crossing in California and Arizona, from 6pm on.”

 _That doesn_ ’ _t explain his mood_. Through her tightened throat, Sharon manages to say, “And?”

He pulls a deep breath before straightening, meeting her stare. “Stroh crossed into Sonora just after 10 o’clock.”

 _So it_ ’ _s over._

_Just like that._

The full realization of his disappearance rolls over Sharon like a wave, forcing air from her lungs and leaving a numb unsteadiness behind.

How long could it have taken him to reach a Mexican airport, where security wouldn’t have known to look for him? How many remote, non-extraditable regions could he have reached from there?

_Gone, like smoke in the wind._

These endless few days — _all for nothing, now_ — catch up with her in a blink. Her knees wobble, her shaky fingers press into the corner of her desk, and not even the deepest, smoothest of breaths can keep her vision from sliding sideways.

“Whoa, hey.” With one long, quick step, Andy’s hand curls at her elbow, the other finds her waist. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

Embarrassment edges into her awareness as he guides her toward a chair. Now, on top of everything, this weakness. On full display, no less. 

But, without missing a beat, he crouches to her eye level with a focus that surprises her. “When was the last time you ate something?” At her dry snort, standing in for a description of the knots that’ve been binding her stomach for days, he angles his head, leaning on the question. “That’s not really an answer, y’know.”

She rubs a circle at her temple, where a pulsing ache has pounded its way through. “I had a bagel this morning.”

In truth it was half a bagel, dry, untoasted, from a mostly empty box left for vultures in the break room. It took a good twenty minutes to swallow, in small, apathetic bites paired with her nth cup of coffee.

Regardless of the effort involved, the answer doesn’t impress Andy. “Right.” He glances at his watch. “You mean about a full day ago?”

This absurd passage of time leaves Sharon wincing, mumbling, “I can’t eat.”

“Everyone’s gotta eat.” With a nod to the square of tile she’d nearly dropped onto, he adds, “Or else they end up on the floor.”

“I’m—”

“Fine,” Andy finishes for her, nonchalant. “Yeah, I know.” Following a long, searching look that sends a shiver hinting between her shoulder blades, he stands. “You ready to head out?”

“I’m not sure.” A warning weaves through her words. It was she who was supposed to be kicking _him_ out, after all.

The droop in his shoulders is unmistakable when he angles toward the empty, darkened office, looking at something the blinds block from view. “It’s over. For now, at least.” His posture rebounds when he focuses on Sharon again. “And there’s no way in _hell_ I’m letting you try to drive home after you almost passed out.”

Annoyance flares within her. “You’re not _letting_ me?”

“Nope.” He doesn’t so much as blink in the face of her pique. “You’re out of commission, and Provenza’s gone. So it looks like I’m in charge, and I say I’m the chauffeur.”

Leave it to Andy Flynn to push her patience in a time of crisis. But, as much as she’d like to, she can’t deny his point. With her head feeling as if it’s filled with helium and floating over her shoulders, the task of getting home stands like a wall before her.

That being said, he overreaches by resting a palm on her shoulder when she moves to get up. “Uh, maybe it’d be a good idea to lose the shoes, for now?” At the glare she shoots over the frames of her glasses, he holds firm. “It’s three in the morning, Sharon. No one important is gonna see you barefoot.”

She rolls her eyes, but nods toward her desk. “Lower drawer, this end.”

With his brows furrowed deep, he follows her directions. What she sent him for is obvious, given the way his features smooth as he reaches inside and lifts a pair of flats. “I should’ve known.”

“Probably so,” she sighs, holding out a hand for the shoes. As she swaps out her heels, he locks her computer, scoops up her bag and jacket. It all points to an assumption of frailty, one she meets with steel. “Can I stand up now, or are you going to carry me?”

His expression wisely holds little of the single, dry laugh that moves his chest. “Nah, my hands are full.” He bends to scoop up her discarded shoes, then raises an arm toward the door. “After you.”

Andy’s nerve overwhelms Stroh’s disappearing act in Sharon’s mind. Out on the sidewalk, under the pitch black sky, she untangles the turn of events, how her intention to calm him and send him home turned into _this_. It’s a temporary distraction, one that intensifies when, just beyond the PAB, his palm finds the base of her spine.

It’s a familiar gesture. More suited to after-dinner strolls, yes, but not foreign. It’s more of a comfort than she’d admit to him, especially now.

A black-and-white Charger rolls down the street. In a blink, Andy drops his hand from her and lifts the other in greeting — despite his armload of her belongings. This act of discretion is so smooth, it nearly escapes her notice. But its full meaning registers when the slight, warm pressure returns to her back only after the cruiser makes a turn out of sight.

This bit of thoughtfulness brushes aside just enough of her annoyance to ask, “Who was your ‘guy,’ this time?”

“A Homeland Security agent I met at a conference a few years ago.” He looks up and down the deserted street before setting across an intersection, against the light. “She’s a fugitive specialist, actually, but I usually go to her with border questions.”

That this description twinges in Sharon’s chest is surely a function of their collective failed efforts. Nothing more. “Be sure to pass my thanks on to her.”

“I will.”

They cross the last block and the climb to his car in silence. She waves off his question on dinner preferences and settles into the front seat. Her attention floats as they set off down nearly vacant, orange-glow streets, each blob of light melting into the next. On and on the view stretches, the giant city laid out for the tenacious — or dangerous, or tired — few who roam before the sun.

In what seems like an instant, Sharon blinks awake in solitary stillness, her forehead propped against cool glass. Grasping for bearings, she takes in the darkened car, catches the striped asphalt of a surrounding parking lot, laid under a fluorescent haze. After craning around, she finds only one other vehicle, a pickup parked along the far curb.

Her hands are on the seatbelt clasp before she glimpses a familiar head of silver hair within the plaza’s only lit storefront. The sight leaves her loosening, watching Andy talking to someone beyond her view. His arms move with steady gestures as he speaks. The motions hint toward a comfortable conversation, an acquaintance.

A leaning look upward and several moments of squinting reveals a dimly lit box sign reading ‘MARCO’S’ in stripes of red, white, and green. At what location in the city Marco has hung his shingle, Sharon has not the slightest idea.

LA is a big place, after all. A person could live here for three decades, as she has, and still discover new corners. Lots of tucked-away places. Lots of lost people.

Plenty of people who don’t want to be found, too.

Memory of the current reality pulls her mood to the ground. Stroh is free. He’s free, beyond US borders, and there’s nothing more to do now.

But before…

 _If I_ ’ _d knocked sooner, if I’d covered the second door, if I’d swept the room myself, if I’d demanded more deputies, if I’d gone over Emma’s head to find a new prosecutor…_

There were so many precautions they could’ve taken. The list sends water down her cheeks. Did they — did she — get complacent? Was that what Stroh had banked on? Human nature is to grow accustomed to anything, after all, no matter how wonderful or depraved. The status quo reigns supreme, and predators love it.

The car’s locks click just before Andy rounds the hood, carrying a large white bag in one hand and a styrofoam cup in the other. Sharon wipes at her face, but it’s too late to hide the damage.

He nudges the door open, balancing the drink in the crook of his elbow. “Sorry to leave you in here, but I was pretty sure—” On seeing her, his voice goes unbelievably soft. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The car sways when he lowers into the driver’s seat. She hesitates in answering, fumbling for another explanation, but fatigue leaves her creativity lowered. Instead, the dark theme spills out. “How could I have let this happen?”

“What?” His genuine confusion reflects in the drop of his brow as he settles the cup into the console. “You didn’t _let_ anything happen, Sharon.”

She directs a shaky exhale toward the knot of her fingers in her lap. “I was _right_ there.”

Andy twists around, plants the bag on the floor of the backseat. “Look,” he starts, then pauses. On a shake of his head, he reaches over to pull his door shut. With even the distant street noise closed off, the car becomes a quarantined capsule, filled only with their breathing and the jangle of his keys. After a moment, he braces his hand against the steering wheel, turns toward her.

“When it comes to Stroh, every single one of us has something different, something more we wish we’d done, something that would’ve shut him down for good. Truth is, he’s a sick bastard, and he loves to fuck with us. And, like today, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep from having to pay for what he’s done.” He squeezes her shoulder before reaching to slide the keys into the ignition. “It’s no use, blaming yourself. He’d be happy to take all the credit.”

Sharon sidesteps his last point. “And what would you have done differently?”

“I’d have put a bullet in his forehead when I had the chance.” The quick answer, the solid fortitude in his eyes, should have her admonishing him, citing use-of-force policies, offering a mirrored reassurance. Instead, she silently holds his stare, conceding his truth. _It_ ’ _s too late — or too early — to let morality tamp down honesty._

Something in her lack of response leaves the corner of Andy’s mouth crooking upward, forming an expression too solemn to be a grin. He taps the cup’s filmy plastic lid and says, “Have a milkshake,” before turning the engine to life.

“A milkshake.”

“Chocolate covered strawberry,” he explains, glancing up to the rear-view as he backs the car from its spot.

As much as appetite has passed Sharon by as of late, the liquid is a perfect blend of sweet, tart, and bitter on her tongue, with bits of the promised strawberry and chocolate for texture. Even her knotted stomach can’t argue against it.

She sips away at the drink as Andy steers a practiced route through a neighborhood half familiar to her. The still, house-lined streets remind her of patrol, her first taste of cop life, back when the most nerve-wracking thing she’d encounter in a workday was a midnight domestic disturbance call.

Those were dangerous, sure, statistically the code most likely to end with an officer down. But it was a different, shorter-term kind of risk than she faces now. Against all odds, the current state of affairs makes it easy to long for those simpler days.

Wilshire and Vermont, where the glow of a red light fills the car, orients Sharon on her internal map. Breaking out of her sipping stupor, she realizes she’s already drained more than half of the only cup Andy brought out of Marco’s. She tips it toward him, a silent offer he dismisses with a wave of his hand as he scans the intersection.

“No, babe, that’s for you.”

In all the years she’s known him, all the thorny situations she’s found him in, never has she seen anything bring him to a sudden, total, freeze. Until now.

His eyes fall closed on a breath that puffs from his mouth. “Sorry.”

This reaction, combined with the easy way the term of endearment wound into his words, threatens to send a giggle up from her chest. After the crushing heaviness of the evening, she can’t bring herself to be annoyed at this flash of absurdity. It’s adorable, actually, if confusing. It’s another nugget to tuck away.

Sharon tamps down a smile, twines her free hand with his on the center armrest. Looking out onto the sidewalk as the light turns green, she can’t resist pinching at the moment. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Right.”

“By you, personally, even.”

His squirming is a morsel of delicious payback for his stunt in the office. “Um, well…”

She squeezes his fingers, letting him off the hook. “It’s fine.”

It’s better than fine, actually. Sharon has found an apprecation in their darker history. Not because she can trot out his old hostility, hold it over him, but because she understands, looking back, how hard-won their friendship is. She knows his rage and his humor; his thoughtfulness, his vices, his darkness, his loyalty. She sees exactly why she can trust him and of what he is capable.

She believes it’s similar from Andy’s perspective, though he apparently, under the circumstances, doesn’t trust himself to speak again until his attention is less divided.

Through the front door of her condo, it’s straightforward enough to imagine this is any other late-night, case-closed dinner. They’re just getting settled, sliding off shoes and holsters, leaning toward eating, when Andy’s phone rings.

“Oh, this is my HSI person.” He holds the white bag out to Sharon with a grin. “Help yourself to anything that looks good, okay?”

She steps into the kitchen to unpack whatever type of food Marco cooks up. A stack of styrofoam rounds meets her first peek into the sack. After lining four of them up, she pries off their lids. Pasta salad. Olives. A briny broccoli mixture. Vinegar-dressed cucumbers and onions.

A flat, warm sandwich makes up the next layer, its parchment paper wrapping translucent with enough grease to further bind Sharon’s stomach. Pushing that aside, she lifts a round plastic clamshell from the bottom. Green, cool, bearing several types of vegetables. Salad. _Thank God._

Some days, it’s good to be predictable.

She settles at the counter and waves Andy over, partially because she wants to hear more about Stroh’s border break, partially because of her curiosity toward Agent Fugitive Expert.

It doesn’t hurt that the invitation stops his pacing, too.

He leans close as he reaches for the sandwich, then again for the broccoli and a fork. While unwrapping, he drops several “yeahs” and “uh-huhs,” prodding the exchange along. At one point, chewing through a bite of broccoli, he meets Sharon’s eyes and rolls his own, signalling the quality of conversation.

It warms her, admittedly. Given the ways the night could’ve ended, this option isn’t bad. In fact, it’s downright calming. At least until Andy’s posture tightens.

“Hang on a sec.” He drops the sandwich, pulls a pen from his jacket, followed by a notebook. “Yeah, can you repeat that?” Another pause. He writes, _Passport, HJ-82023, Canada._ His voice is dark when he says, “Canadian. You’re shitting me… No, it’s just that they have pretty good security.”

Improvised attacks and escape stashes and forged passports. False leads, prop murderers, more dead women. Stroh’s been planning this since before his arrest, playing the long game. As lawyers argued over the best way to lock him down, he just waited for the stars to align. Everyone else served as a pawn. Pieces on the board.

Sharon pushes back from the counter, abandons the rest of the salad, her appetite for both food and information having vanished. She perches on the couch, elbows on knees, chin in hands, and wills her heart to slow its kick-drum rhythm. Beyond the terrace, the sky shows its first hints of violet over the hills. She shouldn’t be seeing it. She should be wrapped in bed, dozing through the last hour before her alarm, instead of mulling the wreckage.

Everything changed today. The world spun a hair off its axis, and all order scattered. This happens at intervals, like earthquakes, unscheduled reminders that life doesn’t play by any set of rules. There’s no plan detailed enough. There’s no violation too deep. There’s no hope capable of overpowering it…

There’s Andy, sinking onto the couch at her side, jacket and tie discarded somewhere. His call is over, a glance finds the food packed away. He doesn’t bother with small talk, thank God, and he doesn’t volunteer what he’s just found out from HSI. He’s here to be here, with her, as she’s pieced together. His palm traces a warm line up and down her spine, a thawing caress through her blouse. The contact is a point of focus, far removed from life’s disasters.

A spark sets off within her, the truth that this touch could be so much more. It could be an escape, skin along skin, fingers twined into hair, wet lips flitting down delicate lines, pure connection. It could be all-encompassing, overwhelming, at least for a while.

They haven’t as much as kissed before. The reasons for that are as complex as their shared history is long. But Andy would partake, given the opportunity. Sharon is cautious, yes, but she isn’t oblivious. Only blindness could keep her from noticing the way his eyes drift low on her body from time to time. Only satisfaction, combined with faint, ridiculous pangs of novelty, could keep her from calling him on it like she’s confronted others.

Given what she knows of his preferences, his tendencies, and the apparent abstinence he’s settled into over the past year or so; given the number of hours they spend together, in and outside of work, the only surprise in this wandering gaze habit is the peerless restraint he’s shown in never forcing the issue.

She’d like to push it now, send principles and propriety caving in on themselves in favor of something good, something whole. The spark has grown into a flame and she wills it toward an overwhelming force, an inferno. Without first lining up a list of outcomes in her mind, she turns to Andy, presses into his side, draws her mouth to his.

Whatever combustion, whatever burst of oxygen she’d hoped for, doesn’t arrive. It’s nice, sure. Pleasant. And, after a moment, his silky lips return the motion, dragging a friction that ignites a few embers. His fingers trail around the shell of her ear, along her jaw, come to rest at her chin.

He pulls back, and whatever she’s expecting from him, it sure as hell isn’t to hold that separation and shake his head.

_No?_

_No._

_He_ ’ _s saying no._

Sharon slams her eyes closed, as if not seeing could make her invisible. Under her glasses, she presses her fingers to her lids for good measure.

_Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod._

Before she can pull off the couch, Andy squeezes her wrists, closes the distance again. “Not like this,” he mumbles into her hair, and while this last-ditch hope for feeling something other than hurt dissolves around her, it’s a flicker of relief, too.

Even so…

There’s the weight of fear, that Philip Stroh is free to chase damned near any terrifying, depraved impulse he has.

There’s the pressure of grief, that Rusty’s safe, steady existence is once again at risk.

And, now, there’s the cutting shame of trying to use Andy — her closest, dearest friend — as Xanax, an object of temporary comfort.

Sharon can’t hold it all back anymore, because the sun is rising on another day and she’s been without rest for most of the week and the volume of her pain is too immense. It leaks under her fingers, down her cheeks. It escapes in her jagged breaths. It leaves her pliant to be wrapped up, gathered against a warm, broad chest.

Andy’s arms settle around her. “I can’t…” The words are soft enough that she isn’t certain she actually heard them. But the sparseness clicks into place when he finishes the thought: “I care about you too much to just…” 

If she wasn’t busy crying, she’d demand he finish the sentiment. As if she doesn’t know, at her core, what he’s saying: that a time as twisted as this is no time to bulldoze further into their relationship; that he cares about her too much to run down a distraction she could very well regret upon returning to a level state of mind.

A simpler description for his choice — for his entire evening of choices — nudges forward, sending a chill down her spine.

_He loves me._

How ironic that this understanding hits her now, after the only rejection he’s had reason to give her.

It’s terrifying, this love. It could send her carefully constructed life toppling over. Sharon has kept her back to it for months, trying to pretend it doesn’t exist. But it’s been growing, nonetheless. Yes, she’s provided it with nourishment through her own actions. How could she not? She cares too much, too. She cares so much that she’s helped build something that hovers over her, now, and she knows, from the glimpses she’s caught, that it’s large enough to fear.

Because this love could unravel everything about who she is, who she’s been telling herself she is for so long. The thought sends another sob cracking up her chest. If she wants this, she’ll have to change, she’ll have to relinquish white-knuckled control. She’ll have to risk and hope and trust. She’ll have to venture down a road that cracked apart years ago.

“It’s okay.” Andy’s voice is, again, just enough to hear, but their proximity leaves it rumbling through her. His hand smooths down her shaking back.

“I’ve got you,” he says, an echo of her precarious moment at the office, and, _God_ , it’s been so long since anyone had her, supported her, like this. She’d convinced herself she didn’t want it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” is a whisper formed against her forehead, and it’s so clear, now, that the hesitation at the start of this avalanche was a delay, not a denial.

Drained, finally, of the gloom that’d built up within her, Sharon drags her hands from her face. She sits up just long enough to drop her glasses onto the coffee table, to notice the gold-orange light filling the room, before settling against Andy’s side. She wills the tension from her body, cedes to whatever comes next.

Because this love is terrifying, yes.

But maybe it’s powerful enough to build a wall against the imperfect world.


End file.
